when we were kids, we put pennies on the tracks,
we’d wait for trains to pass, and then run back
to marvel at the metal, now so flat,
carry them to show to Mom & Dad..
we filled our wagon up with empty cans,
to trade them in for pennies on the pound,
the beer cans pulled from ditches smelled like sin,
we knew the men who drank them needed to be found,
‘cause Jesus was out looking for the lamb who wandered off,
and our church up on the hillside was a lighthouse for the lost,
we wandered from the pasture, through the graveyard, to the woods,
and everything and everywhere was good..
then we came home with splinters in our hands,
from fences that we crossed and trees we’d climbed,
our mother’s tweezers freed them from our skin,
but other splinters she could never find,
other splinters you will never..
there are always splinters left behind…
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